Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 79, No. 484, February, 1856

by Various

Your joy is fustian, and your grief bombast;

Rhetoric has banished reason; kings and queens

Vent in hyperboles their royal spleens;

Guardsmen in metaphors express their hopes;

And ‘maidens, in white linen,’ howl in tropes.”

Terribly severe is all this—terrible for its truth. Gifford was not the man to write mincingly. Nor ought we, at the present day, to write mincingly of the iniquities and stupidities of the stage. But the fact is, that whatever be the shortcomings of the British stage at the present moment, and however much it may deserve the denunciations of criticism, it is incumbent on us to dwell on those indications of promise which are too much overlooked, rather than on the enormous deficiencies which are patent to every observer. Let us see whether the illustrative tendency of the time may not have its bright side as well as a dark, and may not have a higher purpose than spectacular effect.

It would indeed be a great mistake to imagine, that in the production of King Henry VIII., and the other dramas that went before it, the principal object of Mr Charles Kean was simply to place upon the stage a dazzling spectacle, and that his success as a manager has been due to a correct appreciation of the public taste in this matter. Were this the case, there would be nothing special in his managerial career. Brilliant spectacle is nothing new in the history of the theatre—and the history of the English theatre. In the days of James I., some of the stage properties were so very splendid, that we have read of certain lieges who were afraid lest the double-gilt magnificence of the tragedy-kings should cast the majesty of the real sovereign into shade, and so endanger the crown. However absurd and chimerical, what could be more gorgeous than the masques and pageants which were so common in those days? Our extravaganzas (counterparts, to a certain extent, of the ancient masque), although they are more appropriate in costume, and altogether more matter of fact, are not nearly so garish. Where, nowadays, shall we find a queen willing to act like Queen Anne of Denmark—she and the ladies of her court acting the negresses in Ben Jonson’s masque of Blackness? Such magnificence Mr Charles Kean assuredly cannot rival, and his claim to originality is not founded on the gorgeousness of the spectacle which he has placed before the footlights: he claims the praise of historical accuracy. It will be remembered how, in the playbill of his Macbeth—a curiosity in its way—he cited the authority of Diodorus Siculus, Pliny, Strabo, Xiphilin, Snorre, Ducange, and the Eyrbiggia Saga—(not bad for a playbill, the Eyrbiggia Saga!)—and in the not less remarkable programme of Sardanapalus, he lays so great a stress on the virtues of antiquarian research and historical fidelity, as not only to speak of his having learnt that scenic illustration, if it have the weight of authority, may adorn and add dignity to the noble works of genius; and to assert that in decoration of every kind, whether scenic or otherwise, he has, in the first instance, aimed at truth, with the grand object of conveying to the stage an accurate portraiture and a living picture of a bygone age; but also to point it out as a note-worthy fact that, until the present moment, it has been impossible to render Lord Byron’s tragedy of Sardanapalus upon the stage with proper dramatic effect, because until now we have known nothing of Assyrian architecture and costume; so that, according to this view, it is not enough to have for such plays an architecture and costume artistically correct—they must also be historically genuine. This magnifying of historical truth, this drifting from the open and trackless sea of fiction to the terra firma and unalterable landmarks of fact—a strong tendency to REALISM, is the chief characteristic of Mr Kean’s management. And it is observable not merely in his mode of placing a drama upon the stage, but in his own style of acting. Look at Louis XI.—look at Cardinal Wolsey, remarkable for the specification of little traits and details that serve to realise the character as much as possible in that style which has been called pre-Raphaelite.

Nor is this tendency peculiar to the management of the Princess’s Theatre. It is manifested in various ways on nearly every stage throughout the country, sometimes absurdly enough. A provincial theatre announces a grand chivalric spectacle, “with seven hundred pounds’ worth of real armour!” A New York theatre announces that the School for Scandal will be produced with magnificent carpets, mirrors, and genuine silver plate! Whittington and his Cat is produced with a real rat amongst the crowds of sham ones, only the sense of reality is destroyed by the terrier that plays the cat, forgetting his catskin and beginning to yelp. One of the City theatres, in announcing the Hertfordshire Tragedy, set forth that the very gig in which Thurtell drove his victim to be murdered, and the very table on which the pork-chops were afterwards devoured, would form part of the stage properties—being expressly engaged for this theatre. In contrast with such inane realism, one had considerable satisfaction in gazing on the dog which Launcelot Gobbo, in Mr Talfourd’s travesty of Shylock, so triumphantly led about—a toy-spaniel on wheels. It is perhaps unfair to quote in such a connection the latest vagary of this realistic tendency—a curious bit of pre-Raphaelitism—on the part of Messrs Tom Taylor and Charles Reade, who, intending in the King’s Rival to produce as complete a picture as possible of the times of Charles II.—with its wit and wantonness, courtesies, familiarities, periwigs, Mr Pepys, and Spring Gardens—actually brought Major Wildman on the stage, in shirt and breeches, wet and torn, and abominably plague-stricken, all the people flying from the unsightly wretch as from an Afrit of the horrible Kaf, or a Goul of the bottomless pit. And so, for the sake of presenting a picture of perfect accuracy, these authors chose to turn the theatre into a Chamber of Horrors. And since this pre-Raphaelitism, or an antiquarianism worse than pre-Raphaelitism, is the order of the day, we are sometimes surprised that none of the managers has seized upon that one of Shakespeare’s plays in which, of all others, there is room for the display of historical ingenuity, and all the originality of research. We allude to the Tempest, and hope they will make use of the idea, when we point out that as, according to Mr Kean, it was impossible to represent the Sardanapalus of Lord Byron upon the stage until Mr Layard made his discoveries at Nineveh; so, until about fifty years ago, when Mr Malone’s Essay on the Tempest was published, it was impossible to produce that play adequately in any theatre. The Rev. Joseph Hunter has attempted to identify the abode of Prospero with Lampedusa, an island half-way between Malta and the African coast, grounding his opinion upon this amongst other facts, that Lampedusa furnishes the Maltese with firewood, and Prospero sends Caliban forth to collect firewood! This, however, is but child’s-play to the labour of Malone, who not only succeeds in identifying the island with the Bermudas, but actually discovers the identical tempest that gives its name to the play—“the dreadful hurricane that dispersed the fleet of Sir George Somers and Sir Thomas Gates, in July 1609, on their passage with a large supply of provisions and men for the infant colony in Virginia, by which the Admiral ship, as it was called, having those commanders on board [‘some noble creatures’], was separated from the rest of the fleet, and wrecked on the Island of Bermuda.” Then come the incidental phrases descriptive of the storm that identify it with the Tempest—“Admiral ship parted from the rest of the fleet”—“they resolved to shut up the hatches”—“take leave of each other”—“ship struck upon a rock”—“most luckily thrown up between two, as upright as if she had been on the stocks”—“arrived in safety without the loss of a man”—“Bermodes”—“Isle of Devils”—“enchanted place”—“sea-monster in shape like a man”—“richest, pleasantest, most healthful place ever seen.” What a splendid hit Mr Kean or Mr Phelps would make if only some possible Mr Layard could be found who should go and excavate the cell of Prospero! Why not? Is there not perfect truth in what Mr Charles Mathews says:—“In France the dramatic authors have free permission to distort history ingeniously, on condition of being gay and witty. In England, provided we are true to history, we have free permission to be dull and tiresome.”

Now, if some of the phrases which we have been using, have been used correctly; if we have been right in speaking of the pre-Raphaelitism and realism of the theatre, it will be evident that the question as to the present state of the drama, in particular, resolves itself into a much wider question as to the present state of art generally. And the fact is, that the more narrowly we examine the sister arts, the more nearly do we find that they assimilate. In the pictorial art we find the same symptoms of disintegration and decay as in the dramatic; in both, we find the same elements of promise. Look at the walls of our exhibition-rooms, and behold the inanities that figure there, contemporary with the inanities of the theatre. This picture either displays as little action as a modern tragedy, or its action is as spasmodic as an Adelphi melodrama. In how many of these pictures do we find the artists compensating for bad drawing with gaudy colour, hiding vacancy of expression in a blaze of light, feebleness of passion in a tornado of shadows, and blundering perspective, aerial and linear, in a mist as convenient as the clouds by which the gods of Homer saved their heroes from the lances of the enemy? The very faults we find in the theatre! Eternal mannerism, staginess, mimicry, trickery, grimacing, catchwords, red lights and blue lights, and the name of the perruquier mentioned in the playbills in large letters! In how many pictures of naked legs in the last Exhibition, did you not recognise the calves of the gallant grenadier who is now fighting the battles of his country? That beard, that turban; we think we have seen the face of that Turkish Jew in at least fifty-seven pictures; and he so haunts us throughout the Exhibition-rooms in a thousand intolerable disguises—his long nose here, and his cold brown eye there, as if, after using him whole as long as possible, the artists at length cut him into little pieces, and made a division of his remains, that really it would be a pleasure to know that such had been his actual fate. It is the very vice of the stage, where we find Mr A—— (who plays the villains), or Mr B—— (who plays the enamoured young gentleman), or Mr C—— (who does the comic), eternally playing themselves, and through every possible transformation presenting us with the same legs and arms, and expressive nose and cracked voice. Whether on the boards or on the canvass, incapacity and commonplace issue in virtually the same results. And it so happens that if one were asked what are the most striking, the most note-worthy, or the most notorious peculiarities, at this moment, of our picture-galleries on the one hand, or of the theatres on the other, one must inevitably fix upon the pre-Raphaelitism of the one, and the Revivalism of the other, and recognise them as twins. Only it must be remembered that the pre-Raphaelitism of the picture-galleries is but one of the forms, although the most peculiar form, in which the tendency to realism is manifested. It is manifested not less determinately in the prominence given to portraiture—portraits of “men, women, and Herveys,” portraits of dogs, portraits of horses, portraits of prize oxen and pigs, and dead game, and black-faced ewes. The colouring which Gibson gives to his statues is a move in the same direction. And the tendency is symbolised and strengthened by the photographic art which has sprung up within the last few years, and promises, whether for good or for evil, to exercise so much influence on every easel throughout the country.

To come to the point then: What is the meaning of all this realism? If, with all the multiform absurdities in which it is manifested, it must nevertheless be admitted that all or most of the symptoms of vitality in the imitative arts are at the present moment expressed in this manner, what is the value of it?